


Miracle

by Sjutton



Category: De Eneste To (Band)
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-10
Updated: 2016-03-10
Packaged: 2018-05-25 20:26:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6208876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sjutton/pseuds/Sjutton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unoriginal title is unoriginal. After a car accident involving a tree, Simon is concerned for Peter's health. It'd be a miracle if Peter somehow pulls through.<br/>Note: G rating could be slightly controversial for some, due to emotional stress, a tad of fluff, and some mentions of blood. If you aren't extremely sensitive to these topics, you should be fine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Miracle

A tiny touch of bumpers.  
It was stupefying, Simon thought, how this could lead to such huge results. How it could lead to a car, wheels slick with rain and snow, veering off the road and into a tree. How it could lead to Peter lying unconscious in Simon’s lap, his hair and back sticky with blood. How it could lead to Simon shouting at a phone in angry Danish, hiccuping through broken, anguished sobs. How it could lead to Simon sitting in a cold plastic chair by Peter’s bedside, drawing patterns into the older man’s dry palm with his thumb.  
It was completely unfair, Simon thought. The other car hadn’t even stopped—it just kept going; going away from the world it had just shattered.  
Simon exhaled deeply as he studied the pale face of his lover for what could've been the hundredth time that night. He longed for those happy cerulean eyes to open, those thin lips to curl into a smile, anything to signal Peter’s aliveness besides the steady, dull beeping of the heart monitor next to him. Over and over, he prayed to a god he didn’t believe in, begging for a miracle and an answer to _why Peter?_  
Simon sighed, sleep tugging at the corners of his eyes. It'd been nearly thirty hours since he had let himself sleep—or, in other words, thirty hours since Peter had suddenly jerked in bed and muttered something indiscernible.  
Simon had no explanation for this, other than that Peter potentially could be waking from his rather comatose state. This had proved false for the time being, as Simon had been on high alert for nearly the entire time since the incident and never heard so much as a shaky breath from the other man.  
And, oh God, did Simon want some indication of Peter’s awakening. The Dane was supposed to have woken five days prior, the day after the surgeries. When this didn’t happen, the doctors decided to pin the blame on Peter, saying that he had a weak immune system and the drugs took longer to flush out of his body.  
In his heart, Simon knew this wasn’t true. He knew that Peter was on the brink of death, that the only thing keeping him alive was a machine. Simon would never let himself accept this, though. He told himself over and over that somehow, somehow his lover would pull through.  
In another world, he heard the sound of a door being opened and the quiet click-clack of heels coming his way. He automatically opened his mouth to inform the nurse of his primary support person status, but was interrupted by a hand on his shoulder.  
“Sir, you’ve been sitting like that for a long time. Would you like to sit back and sleep for a bit while we check up on the patient?”  
Simon hung his head. He recognised her words as an indirect order, and—as much as he didn’t want to—he knew he had to do what she said.  
“Of course.” Simon breathed, his voice cracking. For Peter, he reminded himself. “Would you like me to move into the waiting room?”  
“Yes, please. We will come get you if we notice any changes in the invalid.”  
Invalid—Simon hated that word. In his mind, it carried connotations of death.  
With a heavy heart, Simon pushed himself from his chair and silently exited the ward. He walked down the hall to the waiting room and collapsed onto a green couch, his head lolling back as the blissful feeling of sleep began to overtake him.

“Mr. Kvamm.”  
Simon’s eyes fluttered open to see the painted face of a nurse. He was silent for a moment as he regained his senses, then abruptly sat up as he remembered everything.  
“Peter? Where’s Peter? Is he alright?!” He demanded, thoughts breaking through the dam of sleep in his head.  
“Yes. Yes, he's alright.” The nurse breathed, a wide, genuine smile spreading across her face. “ He's woken up, actually—the first thing he said was your name. It's really a miracle.”  
A wonderful feeling spread throughout Simon as he jumped up from the couch and exuberantly jogged past the happy nurse to the door of the ICU ward. He carefully cracked open the door, and seeing no one in his way, kicked it open and speedwalked down the rows of beds portioned off by mint curtains until he found the one with Peter’s name by it. He pushed through the curtain and, with a thumping heart, padded over to the bedside.  
“Peter.” Simon whispered as their eyes met.  
“Simon.” Peter smiled, weakly holding up his arm.  
Simon could feel tears forming at the corners of his eyes as he gently but tightly embraced his lover. “Peter, Peter. I love you.”  
Peter’s fingers feebly trailed along Simon’s back as the man tried to embrace him back. “I love you too.”  
Simon stayed there for a moment before he carefully untangled himself from the wires and cords, planting a passionate, lingering kiss on Peter’s forehead before pulling away. No more words were spoken as Simon carefully brushed Peter’s bristly hair from his face; perhaps none needed to be spoken at that time.  
The sweet silence was broken by a deep, heavy breath from Peter. Simon reached forward to see if he was okay, but was interrupted by Peter holding up his arm again.  
“Simon, there's something I need to tell you…”  
The blue-eyed Dane furrowed his eyebrows, putting a tentative, caring hand on Peter’s shoulder. “You can tell me anything, Peter. Anything.”  
The injured man took another long, shaky breath. “The doctors told me… They told me that the tree punctured me in my lower back, right where my spine is. They said that it’s ruined, and… I won't be able to walk anymore.”  
Simon took a quick intake of breath. “So you're paralysed?”  
Peter nodded solemnly, turning away. “Waist-down.”  
Simon embraced his lover once more, kissing the tears that began to slide down the injured man’s cheek. “Hey. Hey, it's alright. Peter, nothing that ever happens could ever make me love you any less, okay? You're perfect to me and you always will be, you hear me?”  


Simon could’ve sworn the sloppy, uncoordinated kiss they shared then was one of the best he'd ever had.

Twelve hours later, Peter was finally cleared for release. Simon signed the papers, and not too long after, he was pushing a smiling wheelchair-bound Peter through the front doors of the hospital. Finally free from the ever-prominent smell of antiseptic, the two Danes couldn't help being cheerful.  
“Hey, do you want to explore town before we go home?” Simon offered.  
“That'd be amazing.” Peter replied, turning to look at Simon with a huge, childish grin.  
And so the two young lovers spent the rest of the day aimlessly wandering the streets of Copenhagen, bringing up old memories and talking about little things that didn't matter. Nothing mattered for the two men right then, other than each other's company.  


Miracles. Simon had always thought they seemed something of children’s play; something that only happened in storybooks.  


Now, however, Simon found that he couldn't believe in them more.


End file.
